


The Interlopers

by NihilNoviSubSole



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NihilNoviSubSole/pseuds/NihilNoviSubSole
Summary: Arcade Gannon and Rory Wood follow a mysterious radio signal to the broadcasting station in Night Vale. Dehydrated and desperate for water and shade, they soon encounter a much more dangerous entity to contend with than the brutal, Mojave heat. Is radio host Cecil Palmer a friend or foe to the dynamic duo? What IS Night Vale? And OH MY GOD, DOES THAT DUDE HAVE AN EXTRA EYE?One shot; complete. Hope y'all enjoy it, no matter which fandom you're coming from!
Relationships: Arcade Gannon/Cecil Palmer, Arcade Gannon/Courier, Arcade Gannon/Original Character, Courier & Arcade Gannon, Female Courier & Arcade Gannon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	The Interlopers

“Got any water left?”

Arcade Gannon addressed his best friend, Rory Wood, who had fallen several paces behind him as they trudged through the unforgiving Mojave heat, the midday sun relentlessly beating down on their heads.

Rory shook her empty canteen sadly. “Not a drop. Sorry.”

“Damn.”

The pair had been wandering for hours, having taken a wrong turn a few miles back, and they were getting desperate. With no sign of shelter in sight, and running out of supplies, they genuinely worried for their safety.

Rory forged ahead of Arcade to climb a boulder, hoping the higher ground would give her a better vantage point of the vast, empty desert that surrounded them. Once she reached the top, she called down to her companion.

“I think I see something a little bit ahead...it kind of looks like a radio tower?”

“A radio tower?” Arcade questioned, “That’s weird. I don’t remember one of those being this far south.” He gestured to his wrist and looked up at Rory. “Turn on your Pip-Boy radio; see if you can catch a signal,” he commanded.

Rory fiddled with the controls on her wearable computer for a moment, and, after a series of precise knob turns, finally picked up a frequency. A soothing, deep baritone pierced the still, desert air, sending a chill up her spine despite the heat. While the voice was not apparently sinister in its tone, it seemed  _ too _ inviting for a wasteland radio host. 

“Welcome...to Night Vale,” the voice crooned. A short, not-quite-dissonant piano melody followed shortly afterwards, and its indescribable quality made the hair on the back of Arcade’s neck stand on end.

“That...that’s a weird broadcast. No?” he raised an eyebrow. “What--is there even a town called Night Vale on your map?”

“Nope,” Rory shook her head, showing him the screen. “Maybe it’s not a town?”

“Maybe it’s a code name for something,”Arcade agreed. “In any case, is that tower near a broadcast building or anything?”

Rory squinted. “Yeah, looks like it,” she murmured, “Short building next to the tower. It’s...huh.”

“What?”

“It’s...purple?”

“What?” Arcade scoffed, “No way. A purple building in the middle of the open desert would have been a local landmark a  _ long _ time ago.”   
  
“Well, come take a look, Einstein,” Rory rolled her eyes and extended her hand to help Arcade join her on the rock, “Come on! Check it out up here!”

When he accepted the hand up and steadied himself, Arcade squinted in the direction that Rory pointed. “Huh,” he admitted, “You’re--yep. That’s exactly what that is. Do you suppose it’s new?”

“Who cares?” Rory snapped, “Do you think they have water? Or at least some  _ shade _ ?”

“Probably. But would they let us in?”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Seeing no other possibly-inhabited structures for miles, the two ventured on foot towards the mysterious edifices. The soothing voice crooned on as they trudged through the desert sand, telling tales of angels and dog parks... _ or something _ , Rory thought. The radio host’s words were so bizarre that she could not even parse everything he said into logical sentences.  _ I suppose it could just be a crazy guy, _ she reasoned,  _ but there’s something about the broadcast that feels...compelling. _

The vast emptiness of the desert--not to mention the sheer size of the radio tower--made their objective seem closer than it really was. By the time they dragged themselves to the front door of the peculiar, purple building, they were drenched in sweat from head to toe, and feeling weaker than ever.

The building stood about twenty feet high, its purple hue glowing in the desert sun. 

_ Wait. Is that just sunlight?  _ Arcade wondered. All of a sudden, an irresistible compulsion washed over him, and he touched his hand to the wall. To his horror, his hand immediately burned from something much worse than desert heat, causing him to reflexively hiss from the pain.  _ No...this thing is generating its own heat, somehow, and a lot of it. But  _ why?  _ We’re in the desert... _

Oblivious to Arcade’s internal monologue, or perhaps compelled, as he had been, Rory knocked on the front door. Its frosted glass window was emblazoned with a giant, purple eye with a crescent moon for its pupil. 

“Listeners,” the voice on the still-playing Pip-Boy radio called, “It appears that I have some visitors knocking on the front door of the studio. I was not expecting visitors, but I think that I will invite them inside. I am going to press a button on my desk that unlocks the studio’s magnetic door, now.”

On cue, the front door’s maglock disengaged with a jolt. 

“If my visitors are listening to me, I ask that they enter through the front door, go up the set of stairs which are immediately in front of it, and go through the door on their left.”

The voice was clearer, now, though it echoed ever-so-slightly out of sync with the Pip-Boy. Knowing they were approaching the source of the voice, Rory turned the radio off, instead listening intently to the invisible speaker.

“Maybe we should turn around,” Arcade worried, “What if this is some kind of trap?”

“Who could be trying to trap us?” Rory rolled her eyes, “And anyway, this is a pretty elaborate ruse for a trap. A whole, fake radio station  _ and _ building? No way.”

“I can hear one of my visitors asking the other if entering my studio would be a trap!” the narrator relayed, “I can assure them both that it is not. It is only me up here, and I am far too busy hosting my radio show to lure desert-dwellers to their deaths.”

“Besides,” whined Rory, “I’m  _ thirsty!” _

“I would like my visitors to know that there is cold, bottled water in the fridge to their immediate left, and that they are welcome to have some.”

“Oh, thank God,” Arcade murmured, “Rory--”

But Rory was already ahead of him, and had thrown the fridge door wide open. The sparkling, clean water bottles that rested in its door seemed to glow like hidden treasure, and each friend guzzled one down in record time. 

“I suppose we should go up and thank this guy, right?” Arcade gasped as he wiped his lips with his hand. 

“Yeah,” Rory replied as she shook the last couple of drops of her water bottle onto her tongue, “Just a quick thanks, look around to see if anyone needs medical help this far out in the desert, then we can go.”

Despite their commitment to brevity, neither could shake their uneasy feeling as they ascended the stairs together, Rory leading the way by a foot or so. Arcade was certain he must have imagined it, but he could have  _ sworn _ he heard one of the steps giggle when he bore weight on it. 

_ I can’t have been the only one who heard that. Is she--is she just not listening? Am I crazy? Maybe I’m hearing things. _

“Rory--” he tried to ask her, but she had already disappeared through the door at the top left of the stairs.  _ How did she get ahead of me so fast?!  _ He thought. He jogged up the last few steps to catch up with her, swearing under his breath as he did so.

“Oh,  _ listeners! _ ” the radio host said joyfully as he approached the door,  _ “ _ My  _ visitors  _ are here! Let me describe them for you. One appears to be...a short, young woman, perhaps around twenty-five years old. She has red hair, and is wearing glasses.”

“Where--where is he--how can he see us?” Rory panicked, grabbing Arcade’s arm.

Before he could answer, the voice continued, “She is also wearing a lab coat, with two symbols on its shoulders: one, the famous rod of asclepius, and the other, a sort of cross with pointed tips, a closed circle in the middle, and an open circle surrounding the outside of the cross.”

Arcade scanned the area to see if he could pinpoint the source of their spy, but only saw a pitch-black recording booth before them. Had it not been for the brilliant purple ON-AIR sign glowing overhead, he would not have even known it was operational. A dark silhouette of a man, backlit by the faint purple glow, gripped what looked like a microphone in his hands, and continued to speak.

“My other visitor,” he said, “is a tall, handsome man who is wearing the same coat as the short, young woman, though its patches are on opposite sides. He is no more than forty years old. His hair is blonde and short, with signs of curls that have not yet finished forming, and he, too, is wearing glasses!”

“Hey, he called you ‘handsome’!” Rory teased.

“I’ll be more flattered when we can actually see what this guy looks like, himself,” Arcade whispered back, “What is  _ with _ the lights in here?”

“Visitors!” the voice suddenly addressed them directly, startling them. “I would like to meet you face-to-face! Now that you are in the recording studio, would you be so kind as to enter my booth? I would exit myself to greet you, but I am unfortunately tethered to the recording equipment.”

Arcade and Rory eyed each other nervously, unsure whether to proceed.

“Uh, hang on a minute!” Rory called towards the booth.

“Take your time,” said the radio host, “I am in no rush. And while I wait for you, I will simply tune to the weather.”

Rather than a weather broadcast, the air filled with music that neither Rory nor Arcade had ever heard before, and did not have the words to describe. It was not especially sinister-sounding--in fact, it felt somehow much more welcoming than the rest of their surroundings--but it felt distinctly out-of-place in both the atmosphere and their present timeline.

Arcade tried to take a step backwards out the door to clear his head, but his heart sank as he realized he could not move his feet. Terrified, he frantically tapped his best friend’s shoulder until she wheeled around. In the pitch-blackness, she was unable to take more than an educated guess at where Arcade’s face was, but did her best to face him.

“Rory!” Arcade hissed, “I think this place is dangerous.” He hoped that the music would keep the ominous host from hearing him. “And I think we should get out of here. But…” he hesitated.

“But you can’t leave, right?” Rory finished, her brow furrowing with anxiety. 

“ _ Right! _ I know we need to turn around and run down the stairs…”

“...but I can’t make myself move that way. Yep. I’m with you.”

“So what do we do now?” Arcade bounced on his heels anxiously. “Do we--do we have to talk to this guy?”

“I don’t see a way around it...maybe he can get us out of here if we go along with whatever his plan is.”

“I don’t know that he’s exactly in the business of helping us escape--”, Arcade began, but before he could finish his thought, the unfamiliar song wound to a close, and the voice returned to the microphone. 

“And we’re back!” it crooned, “Now that I have returned to the airwaves, perhaps my visitors will enter my booth at last. I now know that the short redheaded woman is named Rory. I do not know the name of the tall, handsome man, but my own instincts alone tell me that it is a common noun of some kind. Perhaps a relic of a long-ago era that no longer exists. Rory,” he addressed her suddenly, “What is your companion’s name?”

Arcade’s heart pounded in his ears.  _ Relic of a long-ago era. Yep, that’s pretty much what ‘arcades’ are. This is weird. This is weird. This is-- _

“His name is Arcade,” Rory drawled, her voice an unsettling monotone that did not remotely resemble her everyday cadence. She sounded hypnotized, but a trace of fear lingered in her voice. 

“Arcade and Rory,” the voice crooned. “We have a limited amount of time remaining in our broadcast, and I would so love for you to join us. Won’t you come in?”

The next thing either of them knew, Rory and Arcade were seated side-by-side in a small, plexiglass recording booth. They exchanged a horrified look, barely illuminated by the purple ON-AIR sign, as they both realized that neither of them knew how they’d gotten inside.

Before them sat a man mostly cast in shadow. Slender in frame, and wearing glasses that reflected stray lights from the recording equipment and overhead sign, his silhouette gripped the microphone close to his lips. 

“Who...are you?” choked Arcade, with terror and anger in his voice in equal measure.

“Oh! My apologies,” the man answered, his tone holding eerily pleasant, “I thought everyone in Night Vale listened to my show. My name is Cecil Palmer. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“We, um...aren’t exactly from around here, actually,” Rory said. “But, uh, it’s nice to meet you, too, Cecil.”

The man called Cecil did not speak for a moment. When he did, his tone did not change--but Arcade could sense a shift in the air that made him suddenly, extremely uneasy.

“You are not from around here?” Cecil inquired, after a moment’s hesitation. “That’s...quite unusual! We do not often receive tourists in Night Vale.”

“We’re not really tourists, either--” Arcade began, but Rory cut him off.

“Where even  _ is _ Night Vale, by the way?” she challenged Cecil. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, and me and my friend here have traveled the Mojave a  _ lot _ .”

Cecil was clearly taken aback by her question, but answered it anyway, a trace of offense becoming evident in his voice. “Well? It’s--it’s my home, of course!” he stammered. “It is also the location of this radio station where we are right now. But,” his grew abruptly cheerful, “Frankly, visitors, this show  _ is _ for locals, and we have limited airtime. I would  _ much _ rather hear about you!”

Though Rory could not quite make out Cecil’s face, she swore she saw an eye blink in the dark from a spot in the darkness where an eye should not have been.  _ An extra eye?  _ She panicked,  _ Is that even possible? _

Cecil turned the tables with his next question. “Now, tell our audience. Where are  _ you _ from?” he addressed the pair.

Suddenly, Arcade clapped his hands over his mouth. The horrible compulsion washed over him once more—the same one that drove him to press his hand to the scorching-hot wall—and his body was desperately trying to say something he knew he would regret. He fought the urge with all his might, but he knew, already, that he would lose. 

“Arcade?” Rory said cautiously, touching his shoulders to steady him, “Are you--”

“Navarro--California,” Arcade desperately strained to resist his own words. “My--father was an--an officer for a pre-war group called the-- _ no!-- _ the Enclave-- _ fuck!. _ My--my mother and I--fled persecution from the--from the NCR--and the Brother—Brotherhood of Steel--after he died, but I’m currently in hiding--”

“NO!” Rory cried, looking on in terror.

“--In Freeside, Nevada--working as a medical--researcher with an--anarchist collective called the--the--Followers--of the Apocalypse.”

Arcade’s face was red and sweaty from his attempts to resist his compulsion, and he panted from the strain. His jaw dropped when he realized all he had revealed--and on the radio, no less.

Rory was stunned. She knew Arcade fully planned to take these secrets to his grave, and so there was only one explanation for why he’d revealed them: someone or something had forced them from his lips.

There was clearly a supernatural quality about the recording booth--or, perhaps, the building--that inspired absolute honesty, she realized. There was nothing voluntary about the way Arcade had spilled the beans: the way he resisted speaking reminded Rory of somebody being strangled.

She was unsure, however, if Cecil was behind the sinister, truth-driving force, or if something much larger was pulling the strings. Regardless, Rory frantically attempted damage control while her best friend turned white as a sheet.

“He is  _ joking, _ of course!“ she told Cecil and his audience with a desperate cheer in her voice. “That’s one of those things you say when you like to  _ deflect _ personal questions! Isn’t that  _ right _ , Arcade?” 

Arcade simply nodded his head and gave a thumbs-up, afraid to open his mouth again for what might escape it.

“Arcade agrees,” said Cecil warmly, “Though I must say, Arcade, you are a  _ poor _ liar! I’ve never heard of the ‘Enclave’! Or the ‘Followers of the Apocalypse’! And  _ what _ war are you  _ talking  _ about?” he laughed. “Oh, my new friend. You sure have a  _ wild _ imagination.”

“The--the Great War?” Arcade was, quite literally, unable to resist the question. “You know? The one that--that kind of blew all of civilization to smithereens back in 2077? Are you--” he turned to Rory instead, “Is he--is he seriously not getting this?”

Rory coughed pointedly. “Oh, it just sounds like our new friend Cecil hasn’t  _ read your book yet _ . Isn’t that  _ right _ , Arcade? He hasn’t  _ read your fictional novel yet? _ ”

“Oh! Uh--yes. That’s right. You know me!” he said nervously, “Quite the--uh--creative...writer.”

_ Okay, so Rory and I can ask each other questions and lie, _ he thought.  _ It seems to just be when Cecil asks one of us something that we feel compelled to tell the truth. _

Rory knew she had to come up with a question for Cecil before the mysterious radio host could cause him to reveal any more secrets.  _ If I can just get him talking…  _ she thought.

“Cecil!” she said suddenly, “What--um--what can you tell us about...about this building here?”

“That’s right!” Arcade said, catching on. “What--uh--when was it built? Who runs it?”

If Rory could get Cecil talking long enough, she realized, she could communicate with Arcade. She got the impression that Cecil was long-winded, and she hoped her question would put him on enough of a tangent to buy her some time.

“Oh, that’s a  _ wonderful _ question!” said Cecil. “I know I said we had limited time, but I’m always  _ thrilled _ to discuss the city’s  _ rich _ history.” He cleared his throat. “This building--and this broadcast--are Night Vale Community Radio. Long ago, when our forefathers, wearing crowns of meat, first painted the town charter on the back of a very confused wolf…”

  
As she tuned Cecil out, Rory rummaged in her pockets. After a moment, she produced the small, leather-bound journal that she and Arcade shared for their wasteland expeditions, plus its accompanying pen. Though she still found it difficult to discern Cecil’s facial features-- _ Dear God. That  _ is _ a third eye, _ she noted, her stomach sinking--her eyes had adjusted to the darkness much more than before. Neither Cecil, nor any of his eyes, were looking at her: rather, gazing skyward as he recounted the town of Night Vale’s extensive history. He did not conduct himself in such a dull, informative way as a tenured history professor; rather, with a nostalgic, dreamy air as though he had lived through all the events he described.

“In the year 3500 BC…” Rory heard him say.

_ No way. He can’t have been alive  _ that _ long… _

Shaking her head in disbelief, she gently stepped on Arcade’s toes from where she sat, grabbing his attention, and subtly showed him the journal. She could just barely make out his nod in the pitch-blackness. Glancing at Cecil’s silhouette to make sure she was not noticed, Rory scribbled furiously on a blank page.

_ How the HELL are we getting out of here? _

She tilted her wrist inconspicuously towards the page, illuminating it with the faint glow of the Pip-Boy.

_ I’m honestly not sure, _ Arcade wrote back, _ Is it the building that’s keeping us here, or Cecil? _

Rory shrugged; then, realizing Arcade could not see her very well, she took the journal back.

_ I don’t know. Did you think he sounded a little weird when I mentioned we weren’t from around here? Also, HELLO??? THIRD EYE, DUDE!!! Are you SEEING THIS??? _

Arcade nodded vigorously in the blackness as he wrote his response.

_ Yep. Yep! I saw it too! You’re not crazy!  _

He tapped the pen to his chin as he considered his next lines.

_ Okay,  he continued, This guy has a third eye, might be immortal, and might be holding us hostage with psychic energy. Where do we go from here? _

Before Rory could respond, Cecil raised his voice just enough to bring her and Arcade back to earth.

“And so, visitors!” he crooned, “The town of Night Vale has a long and storied history, and Night Vale Community Radio has always been a part of it. And--at least as far back as  _ I _ can remember--I have always been a part of Night Vale Community Radio.”

“Th--that’s fascinating, Cecil!” Rory said nervously. “Really--really great. Okay, so, I have another question--”

“Actually, Rory, I’m afraid I have a question for you,” Cecil interrupted.

“Oh--no, no--I--I don’t--”

“What are you doing here?” he asked simply, never dropping his professional, broadcaster voice, “Why have you and your handsome friend Arcade followed the source of my broadcast?”

Filling with dread as the irresistible urge to tell the truth washed over her, Rory struggled not to speak, and quickly lost. 

“I--we--we just--we needed some--some water…” she strained.

“Your lab coats suggest that you are medical professionals of some kind,” Cecil continued. 

“Now, I am quite curious why two medical professionals would venture out into the desert without sufficient water. Do you have any insight, Arcade?”

“We--we didn’t--we didn’t have--have--have enough--” Arcade struggled to respond. “--limited--supplies--we--ran out--”

“Who do you work for? StrexCorp?”

“No!” Rory cried, “We--we don’t know what--what StrexCorp  _ is--” _

“We’re--we’re--Followers--Followers of the--of--the--Apocalypse--” Arcade tried to help his friend.

“And what do they do?” asked the radio host brightly. “What are you doing here _,_ Rory _?_ ”

“We-- _ no!”  _ Rory screamed as she realized what she was being compelled to say, “We-- _ no, no, no-- _ are on our way--”

“RORY!” Arcade cried, “ _ NO!” _

_ “-- _ to the New Vegas Strip--”

“--Rory, I’m begging you,  _ stop!--” _

_ “I CAN’T!”  _ she cried, “I’m sorry! We’re-- _ fuck _ \--on our way--to--to--the Strip--and we’re--”

“ _ THEEEEERE’S! ANTIMONY, ARSENIC, ALUMINUM, SELENIUM!”  _ Arcade suddenly sang at the top of his lungs. If he sang loudly enough, he realized, perhaps he could drown out whatever Rory was about to say. “ _ AND HYDROGEN, AND OXYGEN, AND NITROGEN, AND RHENIUM…” _

Against her will, Rory continued to deliver her strained, involuntary confession, while Arcade rattled off the old tune that taught him the names of all the chemical elements long ago. Their hearts pounded as each attempted to drown out the other, their volume mounting with every passing second.

Cecil tried to intervene, bellowing for the pair of them to quiet down, but his words were lost in the chaos: Arcade swore he felt something touch his face in the darkness, reaching for his mouth to silence him. He shrieked in abject terror as he blindly, frantically swatted the invisible creature away.

“GODDAMN IT, RORY! HURRY UP!” he bellowed, breaking out in a cold sweat, “Stop fighting it! It doesn’t matter! _...THEEERE’S! HOLMIUM, AND HELIUM, AND HAFNIUM, AND ERBIUM…I’m just going to keep drowning you out!  _

“--liberate-- _ no!-- _ New--New Vegas--from the-- _ fuck! _ \--NCR--and the--and Caesar’s--”

“ _ AND PHOSPHOROUS, AND FRANCIUM, AND FLUORINE, AND TERBIUM--” _

_ “ _ Caesar’s--Legion,” Rory panted, finally finishing her revelation. 

A heavy silence filled the air as Arcade drew his song to a close, too. Neither of them could hear anything except a slight ringing noise, and the pounding of their hearts in their ears.

When neither Cecil nor Arcade spoke for a moment, Rory reached for her water bottle, the last of which she had brought up with her from the fridge downstairs. As she brought the bottle to her lips, her heart sank into her stomach.

“You drugged us,” she hissed, wildly searching for Cecil in the darkness. “The water. Right?” she nodded vigorously, “Is that your fucking game?”

“I do not know what you mean,” said Cecil, still pleasant and professional.

“You lure in desperate travelers to get them to tell you their secrets,” she accused, “Then you broadcast them on the radio. Who are you  _ with _ ?”

“Night Vale Community Radio, of course,” he replied calmly, “We have discussed this already.”

“Rory,” Arcade whispered, “He’s not lying.”

“How do you  _ know _ ?” she cried hysterically, “ _ HOW DO YOU KNOW?!” _

“Visitors, I assure you, there is  _ nothing wrong _ with the water!” Cecil insisted. “Nothing at all. Arcade can tell you that.”

Wild-eyed, Rory bolted upright, casting her struggling gaze back and forth between the shadows beside and before her. “What does he mean by that?” she demanded, “Are you with  _ him, Arcade?  _ Are you  _ fucking with me?” _

“No, Rory!” Arcade yelled, stunned at being so direly accused. “No! He’s saying that because he knows I felt that same--compulsion, or whatever you would call it--to touch my hand to the building before we ever walked in. It--it can’t be the water,” he explained. After a tense moment of silence, though, something sickening occurred to him. “Hang on,” he murmured, “why are  _ you _ so suspicious?”

“What are you talking about?” Rory spat. 

“Accusing me about the water?” Arcade snapped, “We  _ both _ know that’s ridiculous. What are you covering up?”

“What are you  _ talking about _ , Arcade?”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” His heart raced as he drew wild conclusions. “When they’ve done something wrong, they start flinging accusations back and forth to distract everybody from what they’ve done. What did you  _ do _ , Rory?”

“I didn’t do  _ anything!  _ Arcade, this is--”

“-- _ YOU  _ are the one who pointed out the radio tower!  _ You _ are the one who had us follow the broadcast!”

“Well,  _ you’re  _ the one who told me to tune into the broadcast in the first place!”

“And then it  _ took a hold of you _ , right?” Arcade accused, “ _ It did!  _ You’re  _ possessed,  _ by whatever  _ thing _ is controlling this--this--this  _ place!” _

_ “SO ARE YOU!”  _ Rory bellowed, “ _ YOU  _ are the one who started outing yourself as an Enclave baby  _ ON LIVE RADIO--” _

_ “--YOU  _ are the one who started telling everyone about our--our  _ plans!” _

“ _ Aaaand _ that’s all the time we have, listeners!” Cecil interjected calmly, but loudly enough to stop the pair’s argument in its tracks. Once they fell silent, he continued, “Tune in next week for a special message from the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. Good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

A strange feeling washed over Rory and Arcade. It felt as though a fog had lifted, and the sudden silence of their surroundings was almost deafening, not even broken by the faint electronic humming of Cecil’s recording equipment. 

Rory rose to her feet and approached the door of the booth. Hesitantly, she reached for its knob, awaiting the breathtaking sense of resistance that had earlier stopped her from going down the stairs. 

But she felt no such thing. Shocked and relieved as her hand freely twisted the doorknob, she motioned for Arcade to join her with her other hand. 

“You are free to go, visitors,” said Cecil serenely, “Of course.”

“What, did you undo the force field or whatever?” Rory rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot.”

“I did no such thing,” he replied, seeming genuinely confused. “You were  _ always _ free to go!” 

“That—no. We couldn’t—we couldn’t move. What are you talking about?” Arcade snapped.

“You have always been free to leave,” Cecil replied simply. “There was nothing in the water. There was nothing in the air. There is nothing extraordinary about this building.”

“What are you—are you saying we made it all up?” Rory accused. 

“It happens, occasionally, to interlopers,” Cecil told her. “They become...paranoid, for some reason, when they visit our town.”

“Why—why is that?”

Cecil did not answer.

Rory took Arcade’s hand. “Come on,” she said softly, “I’m sorry for all the stuff I said. Let’s get out of here.”

Rory dragged her friend by the hand down the stairs of the studio. Arcade frantically glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Cecil--or worse, whatever creature had grabbed him in the dark. Neither manifested, and Arcade only saw the yawning blackness of the stairs and hallway behind him. 

When they reached the outdoors, a brilliant Mojave starscape glimmered above them, and the lingering glow from the purple building illuminated their faces. 

“I’m sorry too, Rory, by the way,” Arcade said suddenly, as Rory fiddled with the controls on her Pip-Boy, scanning the local map for nearby shelter. 

“It’s fine, dude. I guess we were just dehydrated,” Rory replied, though she did not sound like she believed it. “Weird stuff.”

“Hey, actually, before we go,” Arcade lowered Rory’s Pip-Boy arm, “Can we just... rest for a second? Sit down? I’m very dizzy all of a sudden.”

“Yeah, of course,” she nodded, lowering herself into the dirt and patting the spot beside her. “You still thirsty? Need a snack or something?”

“That—maybe…”’Arcade said foggily. His head felt thick and his speech was slurred. “I don’t…”

Slowly, the purple glow faded from view as the edges of his vision went dark, and the stars above him blurred together in a brilliant flash just before he blacked out completely.

***

“Arcade.  _ Arcade!  _ Wake up. We  _ have _ to get the hell out of here!”

Rory’s voice was the first thing Arcade heard as he regained consciousness—but the second thing he heard was a horribly familiar, clicking, grinding sound from somewhere above him. 

When he opened his eyes, he was met with the sight of the Geiger counter on Rory’s Pip-Boy, inches from his face. The dial was solidly in the red zone, and the detector’s sounds rapidly ascended in pitch and speed. 

“Wha—what?!” He sat bolt upright as he processed what he was seeing and hearing. “That—where are we? That thing is off the charts!”

“You’re telling me,” Rory said, yanking him up. “And I have no idea. Wherever we passed out, I guess there’s some sort of nuclear waste buried underground.”

“Passed out? What do you mean?”

Rory shook her head. “It doesn’t matter! We were—following some sort of weirdo radio broadcast I guess? And I guess we passed out from being so thirsty...I woke up before you, though, and found a water pump over there,” she pointed west. “I fired up the Geiger counter to make sure the water wouldn’t kill us, but forgot to turn it off. When I got back to you, it was going crazy!”

“Radio broadcast?” Arcade stopped in his tracks. “We were following a radio broadcast?”

“That’s what I remember,” Rory confirmed, “but that’s all. And I don’t—“ she fiddled with her Pip-Boy—“I don’t have the signal anymore. It was something like—Night...Dale? Knightdale? I dunno,” she shrugged. “I don’t remember. But whatever it is, it’s gone.”

“Must have been a passing satellite,” Arcade murmured in shock. 

“Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, let’s get the hell out of here!” she urged, beckoning Arcade to run ahead with her. 

Arcade and Rory took some RadAway as soon as they found a resting place that was relatively free from radiation. As memories of Cecil and his third eye began to fade, Arcade subconsciously touched his hand to his forehead. Immediately, he winced in pain—the brief contact had burned both his fingers and the spot that he had touched. 

“What’s wrong, dude?” Rory asked anxiously, “Are you running a fever?”

“Just some heatstroke,” he muttered, still stunned. “I’ll—I’ll be alright.”

Aurora Wood and Arcade Gannon were no strangers to showing up places where they were not welcome. But to arrive as an interloper--even by mistake--to a place like Night Vale was a dangerous game, and one Arcade never wanted to play again.

_ No matter  _ where _ Night Vale is,  _ he thought, gingerly rubbing his burning forehead. 


End file.
